


Tout le Mensonge

by Delancey654



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 16:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12039969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delancey654/pseuds/Delancey654
Summary: Deputy Head Auror Harry Potter is obsessed with his pursuit of Draco Malfoy. Hermione Granger gets caught in the middle. A remix of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, with Harry as Inspector Javert and Malfoy as Jean Valjean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been written for fun rather than profit. Many thanks to I was BOTWP for her fabulous editing and suggestions, to LincolnX for checking the bits of dialogue in French for errors, and to the mods and organizers of this round of the Dramione remix.
> 
> This is a remix of Victor Hugo's epic novel Les Miserables, which focuses on the relentless Inspector Javert pursuing an ex-convict, Jean Valjean, over seventeen years. This story draws from an early incident in the novel, when Javert becomes convinced that a respected factory owner living in a seaside town near Calais must be Valjean, due to the superhuman strength he displays in lifting a horse cart off a trapped man. Here, I've cast Harry Potter in the role of the obsessed but not-infallible Inspector Javert, with Hermione as the ever-loyal friend trying to help him and keep him out of trouble as Harry bends the rules in his search for Malfoy.

**_August 2005_ **

For years, Narcissa Malfoy had warned the Ministry that the manor's wards had been compromised by Voldemort, giving anyone with a Dark Mark unfettered access to the property. 

She was not a curse breaker and, as a Malfoy only by marriage, she lacked any innate ability repair the wards herself. But the Aurors and MLE, if not entirely indifferent, were spread too thin to prioritize the widow of one Death Eater and mother of another.

And so it was, on the very first night after Draco Malfoy was released from Azkaban on parole, fugitive Death Eaters broke into Malfoy Manor, interrupting the quiet dinner he was having with his mother.

When the Death Eaters arrived, Draco was in no shape to put up a fight. He was fortunate to still be in his right mind, having served his time in Azkaban's minimum security wing. While that section of the prison was guarded by humans instead of Dementors, Azkaban still deserved its reputation as the wizarding world's harshest prison.

" _Expelliarmus_!" two male voices cried in succession, leaving Draco and Narcissa defenseless.

Six Death Eaters had invaded the Malfoy's dining room: Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Virgil Crabbe, and the senior and junior Gregory Goyles. The last, formerly Draco's friend and follower, would not meet his eyes, but the rest stared at him with unadulterated loathing. Draco had no trouble identifying them or discerning the expressions on their faces, since none of them had bothered to wear their masks.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant family gathering," Rodolphus sneered. "My traitorous bitch of a sister-in-law and her turncoat bastard of a son."

Narcissa made to snap her fingers to summon the Malfoy house-elves for assistance, but Rookwood grabbed her wrist with viper-like speed and twisted it, drawing a pained cry from her lips.

Draco expected the green light of the Killing Curse, or at least the searing pain of a _Crucio_ , but instead Crabbe - his dead friend's father, and a man who had been like an uncle to him - grabbed his upper arm in a bruising grip and Apparated with him.

They landed in a marshy field. A multi-storied, ramshackle house, its windows glowing in a welcoming fashion in the late summer twilight, was visible through the reeds. Draco had no idea where he was, but it did not have the look of a Death Eater hideout.

With a pop, Rookwood appeared next to them with Narcissa, still gripping her wrist. His mother's blue eyes met Draco's grey ones, and he felt pathetically relieved that she was still alive and unharmed.

"Are they all inside?" Lestrange asked a seventh Death Eater who had been waiting for them in the field, acting as a lookout. Unlike the others, he was wearing his mask, the silvery material twisting his mouth into a leer.

"Yes," Dolohov confirmed, his accent giving away his identity. "Eight of them. Two more came through the Floo just minutes ago. Potter and the Mudblood bitch I should have killed years ago."

"Working late at the Ministry - such diligent little bureaucrats!" Rabastan chortled.

" _Homenum Revelio_." Rodolphus cast the spell at the crooked little house, eight darting balls of light confirming the Russian's intelligence. He smiled grimly. "I've been waiting seven long years to avenge my Bella."

"Time to roast some Weasels in their Burrow!" Rabastan said with gleeful anticipation. "What a terrible way to die," he added, with a sly glance towards Crabbe. "So very painful."

Virgil's hand tightened painfully on Draco's upper arm. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the burly wizard. "I tried to save Vince. Potter tried, too."

There was not a life debt owed, since the younger Crabbe still had died, but Draco thought perhaps he could get through to the father. Then, with Greg helping, or at least staying out of the fray, he and his mother might have a fighting chance to escape.

"One more word from you and I'll cut out your tongue," Rodolphus threatened. "You can't talk your way out of this like Lucius used to."

Draco swallowed hard and fell silent, knowing his uncle was not bluffing.

"Put up the Anti-Disapparition wards," Rookwood ordered in a cold voice, raising his wand. The others followed suit, casting a combination of spells that would trap the Weasley family in their burning home.

A chilling smile spread across Rodolphus's face as he raised an all-too-familiar hawthorn wand.

"No! You can't use Draco's wand!" his mother protested.

"Can't I?" Rodolphus asked, his eyes gleaming cruelly. "Would you prefer to do the honors?"

She drew in a deep breath. "I would, if you promise me that Draco lives. He was always loyal to the Dark Lord, and did his best for him despite being just a boy. I'm the one who betrayed him."

"That you did," Rookwood hissed. 

"Draco will die eventually, but it need not be tonight," Lestrange agreed, too quickly.

Narcissa's eyes narrowed, making her look almost as dangerous as Bellatrix. "Nothing like the Longbottoms, either."

"On my magic, none of us will harm even a hair on ickle Drakey's head," Rodolphus promised. “If you do it.”

With a growing sense of horror, Draco realized his mother had not even sought any protection for herself. He opened his mouth to protest.

" _Silencio_ ," muttered Greg, with a poke of his wand to Draco's ribcage.

"But you will use Draco's wand," Rookwood added, implacably. "You have so little to bargain with, Narcissa. Your son will be a wanted man, like us, but he need not die right now, in front of your eyes."

"Malfoy should not get to live in luxury in his manor while the rest of us are chased after like stray dogs. Let the Aurors hunt him, too," Dolohov growled, to mutters of agreement.

"Do it, Cissy," Rodolphus growled, holding out the hawthorn wand for her to grasp. "Or Draco dies."

With an anguished glance at her son, she took it, pointing it towards the Burrow with the tip shaking. " _Incendio gehénnam_!"

The first few flames were pretty, like glowing flowers, but they quickly caught on the reeds and transformed into fiery monsters that raced towards the house and the oblivious family trapped inside.

Draco had been on a few Death Eater raids where fire had been used, but never Fiendfyre. It was too dangerous, too uncontrollable. He looked away, sickened. He had never been a fan of the so-called Golden Trio, but his term in Azkaban had given him plenty of time for introspection. He no longer considered Potter to be his worst enemy, but even if he had, Draco still would not have wished this horrific death upon him.

The Lestrange brothers, Rookwood, and Dolohov looked at the burning house with rapturous eyes, reveling in the screams that were audible even above the roaring Fiendfyre and crackling wood. Crabbe and Goyle watched with impassive faces. Greg was trying to imitate his father, but Draco noticed he was unable to look at the inferno that had been a home. Instead, his eyes were fixed on a distant point on the horizon.

Narcissa took advantage of their captors' distraction to once more meet his eyes. "Go to the one place where no one would expect you to go, my dragon," she whispered. "I love-"

" _Avada Kedavra_ ," Rookwood snapped, cutting off her last words.

Draco, still silenced, looked at him with burning eyes and wished desperately that looks could kill.

Rookwood turned his wand on him. " _Petrificus Totalus_ ," the former Unspeakable said, smiling as Draco toppled to the ground, next to his mother's corpse. "Roddy promised we wouldn't hurt you, but there's no reason why we can't leave you behind for the Aurors to find."

"And the Aurors haven't made any promises to your dead mum not to hurt you," Rabastan said with a nasty laugh. "I'm not sure you'll even be alive tomorrow to receive the Dementor's Kiss."

"It's done," Dolohov stated. With Narcissa's death, the Fiendfyre had burnt itself out - too late for the survival of anyone who had been inside the home. He held out an old umbrella. "Everyone get a hand on it."

The other Death Eaters hastened to obey. Greg gave him one last guilt-stricken glance, mouthing an apology as the Portkey activated, leaving Draco to his fate.

In the near distance, closer to the smoldering ruins of what had been the Weasley home, he could hear the pops of incoming Apparition as the Aurors arrived at the Burrow. He had minutes left of his oh-so-brief freedom, before he was hauled back to Azkaban or summarily Kissed. And his mother - the one person in the world who loved him without placing conditions on her affection - was dead, staring up at the star-speckled sky with sightless eyes.

Draco's throat constricted as he fought back a sob. Malfoy men didn't cry, or so Lucius had taught him. He blinked back shameful tears. He had blinked. _He had blinked_. He was no longer Petrified.

"Merlin bless you, Greg," he murmured with heartfelt appreciation. He doubted his friend had ever mastered wordless incantations; he must have muttered a _Finite Incantum_ , lifting the spells that had kept Draco silent and immobile.

He rolled to his hands and knees and stealthily peered through the reeds. The Aurors were milling at the perimeter of the Burrow, but would be fanning out to search the surrounding marshland soon enough. He knelt next to his mother's body to retrieve his wand from her slack grip. With gentle thumbs, he pressed her eyelids closed. "I love you too, Mum."

He stood up and closed his eyes. With his wand clutched in his hand, Draco focused on the farthest destination that he was capable of Apparating to and did what Malfoys did best - he fled.


	2. Chapter 2

**_August 2017_ **

Harry was already waiting at their favorite lunchtime spot, just off Charing Cross road near the entrance to Diagon Alley on the Muggle side, when Hermione arrived in response to his urgent owl.

She greeted him with a tight hug, exercising her prerogative as his oldest friend.

“How are things?" she inquired, the casual words hiding a volume of meaning. The time of year, right around Ginny's birthday and the anniversary of her death and the death of little James Sirius, was always emotionally fraught for Harry. It did not matter that twelve years had passed since Ginny, Jamie, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, and George, along with Amos and Matilda Diggory, had been murdered by Fiendfyre.

Hermione knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that she and Harry were alive only because they had stayed late at the Ministry on a night when Molly had invited her neighbors over for dinner. The Death Eaters had mistaken the arrival of the Diggorys by Floo for Harry and Hermione returning from work and then set off an inferno that claimed nearly all of the Weasley family, plus two of the wrong victims.

"As well as can be expected," Harry answered, tonelessly, returning the hug, then releasing her to sit back down. “I thought you’d be here earlier.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Hermione apologized, taking the seat opposite. “I had to get some approvals through Percy,” she offered by way of explanation. Five years prior, she had transferred from a sinecure in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to a much more demanding but meaningful position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“Percy and his paperwork,” Harry sneered. “You’d think he’d pull his quill out of his arse and be more concerned about putting Death Eaters in Azkaban than ensuring you’ve dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’ on a warrant.”

Hermione enjoyed a good working relationship with Percy, but the youngest surviving Weasley brother and Harry were perpetually at odds. “Every witch or wizard is now guaranteed the right to a fair trial,” she sighed, revisiting a familiar argument. “Even Death Eaters.”

“They’re bloody vermin, Hermione! The Marks on their arms are all the evidence anyone should need to throw them in Azkaban!”

“Professor Snape,” she reminded him. "Anyway, I don’t want to row with you, Harry.”

“Me either, ‘Mione. You’re all I have left,” he said, sadly. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

"I'm alright," Hermione replied. It was an honest answer. More than a decade later, the pain of losing Ron had dulled. She also had her daughter as a reminder of what she had loved best about him. "It's been hectic, getting Rose ready for school." She immediately regretted her thoughtless words when Harry's face clouded with pain.

"Jamie would have been going into his third year," he stated bleakly from across the cafe table. "And the baby would have been starting at Hogwarts with Rose." Ginny had been pregnant when she died, a couple of months further along than Hermione.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said. She placed her hand over his, knowing both the gesture and her words were cold comfort. "I wish there was something I could do."

He withdrew his hand, not to rebuff her, but to pull his phone from his pocket. "There may be."

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion, all-too-familiar with the hard expression on his face and fanatical gleam in his emerald eyes. Harry was not above playing on her emotions if it furthered his obsession. He had told her once that the Sorting Hat had considered him for Slytherin first, and she had never forgotten that tidbit of information.

"Please tell me you need me to try and expedite something through MLE." She was well-positioned to do the occasional favor for Harry in his role as Deputy Head Auror. "Please tell me it's that and not something to do with Malfoy."

Harry's stalking of Draco Malfoy during their sixth year at Hogwarts had been mere childish building blocks in comparison to his current towering obsession. After the Fiendfyre at the Burrow, the full resources of the Auror Department had been deployed to find the blond Death Eater, since there was an obvious linkage between his release from Azkaban and the attack in Ottery St. Catchpole. The intensive international manhunt had yielded nothing more than Malfoy's hawthorn wand, discovered in a puddle of blood in a Geneva alleyway.

Initially, many in the Ministry of Magic had subscribed to Harry's theory that the sneaky Slytherin had faked his death, particularly since his wand was found in the vicinity of the Swiss branch of Gringotts. But after years of legal wrangling spearheaded by Hermione in the Wizengamot, the goblins finally agreed to allow the Ministry to have access to the Malfoy account records. Bill Weasley had personally reviewed those records and confirmed that Draco Malfoy had not made any withdrawals from his family's accounts or even set foot in the Swiss branch of the bank. At that point, he was presumed dead, either murdered by fellow Death Eaters or killed in a Splinching accident.

Twelve years on, with no reliable sightings of Malfoy in that entire time (Hermione did not count the occasional story in the Quibbler), only Harry still persisted in his belief that Malfoy was alive, living somewhere as a fugitive from the Auror's righteous justice.

"Watch this and tell me if you think it's something to do with Malfoy," Harry urged, passing his phone across the table. "Someone posted it on YouTube a couple of days ago."

"Harry, Malfoy's dead," Hermione told him with as much patience as she could muster. "He's not going to show up on some Muggle's camera phone."

"Just take a look," he said defensively. "I was right about Malfoy being a Death Eater at sixteen, even though you didn't believe me then, either."

Suppressing a sigh, Hermione peered at the grainy video. It showed a chaotic streetscape, with people running and screaming as sirens wailed in the distance. "Where is this?" she asked.

"Las Ramblas in Barcelona. During last week's terror attack," Harry answered.

"Was there any DE involvement?" Hermione asked carefully. Mindful of their Muggle surroundings, she used the acronym for Death Eaters.

Harry shook his head. "No, not this time. It seems to have been only ISIS." He would know - Death Eaters had been involved in a variety of terrorist attacks around the globe, and the Aurors' ongoing priority mission was to hunt them down. “Except for Malfoy being there.”

“Harry -”

"This is what I wanted you to see." He cut her off, stabbing his finger at the phone's screen in emphasis.

Hermione squinted at the poor-quality video. A woman was screaming, gesturing to a car where, underneath, a little girl was pinned, nothing visible but skinny legs and feet encased in pink trainers. In response to her pleas, a blond man shoved his way through the sheep-like crowd and grabbed the bumper of the vehicle.

"That's amazing," Hermione murmured to herself as the video showed the man lifting the car several inches off the ground, enough for others to pull the child free. "It's a phenomenon known as hysterical or superhuman strength, when adrenaline enables a person to perform feats well beyond their ordinary physical limitations."

"No, it's magic," Harry contradicted, his green eyes nearly glowing with manic intensity. He took the phone from Hermione to replay the scene, this time focusing in on the blond man's face. "Look at him - he's muttering a Levitation Charm. You can see his lips form the " _oh_ " in ' _leviosa_.'"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think so, Harry. He might be praying out loud, or asking for help."

"And look at his face," Harry went on, as though she had not spoken. "It's Malfoy. I'm sure of it!"

Doubtfully, Hermione scrutinized the man. To be sure, his hair was a pale blond and he was fair-skinned, with angular features, but there was nothing about him that sparked recognition. Try as she might, she could not superimpose the features of the cocky boy she had slapped at age thirteen or the gaunt young man who had watched his aunt torture her onto the face of the blond man straining to lift a car in defiance of the laws of nature.

The man's actions also begged the question. "Harry, do you really think Draco Malfoy would help rescue a Muggle child?"

"Well, he did, so there must be some sinister reason behind it," Harry glossed over her question, passing her a thin dossier of news clippings and printouts from websites. "He's calling himself Denis-Luc Madeline. DLM."

Hermione frowned a bit at the name, feeling the tiniest sliver of doubt. "The same initials are almost certainly a coincidence."

"He's living as a Muggle in Montreuil-sur-Mer. He's fooled the entire town - there's even talk now about electing him mayor. Luna said he was hiding out in France," Harry added, as though that clinched the matter.

Hermione snorted, regaining her sense of reality. "Was that before or after the Quibbler story that hypothesized Malfoy was hiding in the rain forest, worshipped as an albino god by a native tribe? Or the one that speculated he had moved to Nashville and was trying to become a country music singer?"

Harry gave her a quelling look. "He's in France. He owns a confectionery factory," he stated with confidence. "Remember how Malfoy was always eating sweets at school? It's him, alright."

"You can't possibly know that," Hermione snapped.

"I _feel_ it," Harry countered. "Auror's intuition. I'm sure it's him, Hermione!"

"Harry, you can't break the Statute of Secrecy and arrest some random Muggle based on your intuition," Hermione attempted to reason with him. "Not again."

Several years earlier, Harry had done just that, and it had nearly cost him his career. Even today, it was the reason Gawain Robards was still hanging on as Head Auror, despite Harry's heroism and otherwise impressive arrest record. Hermione was fairly sure that anyone else might even be looking at a short stint in Azkaban for the same offense - indeed, Percy had advocated for it - but allowances were made for the grieving Chosen One.

Harry deflated. "Yeah, you're right. Robards would have my badge if I did that again, and Percy would never approve a warrant.”

Hermione's relief at having talked some sense into her friend was short-lived. Harry leaned across the table, green eyes sparkling. "But there's no reason why you can't go to Montreuil-sur-Mer and meet with him, unofficially. You'll be able to tell if he's Malfoy or really just a Muggle."

"Harry," she said, in a warning tone.

"Please, 'Mione," he begged, the childhood nickname softening her more than she would admit. "We owe it to Ginny and Jamie, to Ron and the rest of the Weasleys to find their killer. If you won't go, I will - I need to know that it's not Malfoy, living a comfortable life in France while our families are dead, burnt to ashes."

Hermione blinked back tears, persuaded by the intensity of his emotions. It was such a small thing for her to do, to try and set her best friend's mind at ease.

"Alright, Harry," she sighed. "I'll do it."


	3. Chapter 3

**_September_** _**2017**_

Hermione arrived at the corporate offices of Madeline Chocolatier, S.A., adjacent to a factory that smelled enticingly of cocoa, a few minutes early for her four o'clock interview. Despite Harry's nagging, she had delayed her meeting with the putative Draco Malfoy until the second Friday in September, not wanting anything to interfere with seeing Rose off to school the week before.

She was directed to the executive reception area and greeted pleasantly by a smart-looking young man, who was expecting her and introduced himself as Philippe, Monsieur Madeline's executive assistant. When he excused himself to inform Monsieur Madeline of her arrival, Hermione, anticipating trouble, followed him into the inner sanctum.

Her initial email seeking an interview on behalf of a well-respected weekly magazine had received a swift, brusque rejection. She had then resorted to a letter sent by mail, charmed so that anyone who read it would acquiesce to her request for a meeting. However, if Monsieur Madeline's correspondence was handled solely by his assistant, than he still would be disinclined to meet with her.

" _Monsieur Madeline, il est quatre heures, vos visiteur sont arrivé_ ," announced Philippe.

" _Quoi? Je n'ai pas de réunion, Philippe_ ," came the irritated-sounding response from inside the office.

Having cast a translation charm upon herself that afternoon, Hermione had no trouble following the argument that followed, with Monsieur Madeline insisting - accurately - that he had not agreed to meet with any reporter. To circumvent Phillippe's undeserved tongue-lashing, she walked into the office uninvited with a business card in her hand and a smile pasted on her face. For the supposed interview, she had dressed professionally, with a charcoal blazer over a natural-colored linen dress.

" _Je suis écrivain pour un magazine britannique_ ," she introduced herself. " _Je m'appelle Hermione Weasley_."

The blond man seated behind an imposing mahogany desk, sharply dressed in a navy suit and red tie, looked utterly flummoxed at her arrival. He nonetheless stood out of politeness and took the business card, giving it a cursory glance. To ensure his cooperation, Hermione had placed the same mild compulsion charm on the business card as she had on the letter. She had the satisfaction of seeing his mouth snap shut, suppressing whatever objection he had been forming to her presence.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Weasley," he replied in perfect English, clearly noting her absence of a wedding band. "Denis-Luc Madeline, at your service. I understand from Philippe that you wish to interview me?"

"Indeed," she confirmed, channeling her internal Rita Skeeter. "My magazine is contemplating an article profiling some of the survivors of the bombing in Barcelona. Though you were a hero, not just a survivor, with your rescue of a little girl trapped under a car. How did you manage that?"

" _Le_ _bon_ _Dieu_ gave me strength," he said dismissively. "I prefer not to discuss it. I am a businessman; I prefer to deal in practicalities, not miracles. _Vous comprenez_?"

"I understand perfectly," Hermione agreed. "If you prefer, your profile can focus on your business. Free advertising is always a perk," she added brightly.

"So it is," he agreed, with a lopsided grin. Denis-Luc Madeline was much more handsome in person than in the YouTube video Harry had made her watch over and over, searching for traces of Draco Malfoy's facial features. In person, Hermione perceived very little likeness to the ferret she had gone to school with, other than the pale blond hair. "Very well. I will have Philippe clear my afternoon."

Following a low-voiced colloquy, Philippe bade them farewell, and bowed himself out of the office. His boss shook his head ruefully at his departure. "Normally, he is such a reliable assistant. But when a beautiful woman presents herself, he just can't say no."

Hermione flushed, partially out of the reference to her as beautiful, and partially out of shame for having manipulated poor Philippe with magic.

Monsieur Madeline met her gaze with clear, slate blue eyes. "May I call you Hermione? Pardon me for saying so, but your given name is much more melodious than your surname. And you should call me Luc."

"Not Denis-Luc?" she inquired, recovering her voice and composure.

"No, I prefer that friends call me by my middle name," he said with a charming smile. "Denis-Luc sounds rather stuffy, don't you think?"

"No comment, Luc," she smiled back at him. "Do you mind if I use my phone to record our conversation?"

"Not at all, Hermione. Please, come with me. I am not entirely comfortable with giving an interview, but I would be pleased to give you a tour of the factory. We are not Nestlé, but I am very proud of how we've grown over the last decade, without sacrificing quality."

He gestured for Hermione to precede him. Without hesitation, she did so. She never would have willingly turned her back on Draco Malfoy, for fear of being hexed, but after less than fifteen minutes with Luc Madeline, she knew Harry had sent her on a wild goose chase. Draco Malfoy would never diffidently give credit to a Muggle god, nor would he flirt so blatantly with someone of her blood status. While there was some physical resemblance, Malfoy had never looked at her without a sneer on his pointy face, while Luc was all smiles and admiring glances.

Two hours passed by quickly, with Hermione learning more about the art and business of making chocolate than she had ever thought possible. If she really had been a reporter, she would have been frustrated, since Luc, though always charming, was not the easiest subject to interview. He invariably deflected credit onto someone else and also asked as many questions as he answered, leaving Hermione feeling as though he had learnt as much about her as she had about him. Still, he was clearly proud of his company and his community, and more than willing to speak expansively on either of those subjects.

"As you can tell from the name, Montrueil used to be on the sea, but changes in the tides put it several kilometers inland," Luc explained. "When I opened my factory a decade ago, the town had a high unemployment rate, but the labor pool here is excellent - very diligent and not too demanding when it comes to contractual negotiations. We've expanded, and now are the largest employer in the sub-prefecture."

"So, what do you think about the campaign to have you run for mayor?" Hermione asked, teasingly.

He rolled his eyes. "Absolutely not. I am a businessman, not a politician. I much prefer to be the power behind the throne, not the figurehead subject to everyone's critique."

Hermione wrinkled her brow slightly. Something about that cynical statement did not sit quite right with her.

"Ah, here we are. My favorite part of the factory - the tasting room." Once more, he gestured for her to precede him, only this time, his hand brushed against the small of her back. Her breathing picked up and her momentary disquiet was forgotten as she met Luc's stunning blue eyes.

"Try this one," he urged, holding out a small piece of dark chocolate with a tiny golden honeycomb etched onto the surface. "The filling is caramel honey, laced with cinnamon and ginger."

She took it from him, their fingertips brushing, and popped the chocolate into her mouth as Luc watched her intently. With difficulty, she maintained her decorum - Hermione wanted to moan in pleasure at the taste. "Delicious," she managed.

"That is how I imagine you would taste, if you were a bonbon," he said casually, still looking at her lips.

"Which one do you taste like?" she asked, conscious of the innuendo as she bit her lower lip. They were both adults, and quite old enough to know what they liked.

"You tell me which one you wish to try," he invited, gesturing towards the rows of neatly-labeled chocolates.

The labels were written in French, but she found the translation easy enough. After a moment's consideration, she pointed to her selection, a dark chocolate scented with Earl Grey tea and lavender. "That one, please."

"Tea?" Luc inquired, with a raised eyebrow. "How stereotypically British. May I?"

At her nod, he plucked the piece of chocolate from the tasting table and held it to her lips. Hermione noted his well-manicured fingernails and the absence of any wedding band as he fed the chocolate to her. She allowed her tongue to dart out against his fingertips and was gratified to hear him inhale sharply in response.

"What do you think of the flavor, Hermione?" he purred.

"I liked it even better than the last," she replied, looking up at him through lowered eyelashes and licking her lips.

"So, will you be returning to London this evening?" Luc asked with studied casualness.

"I hadn't thought that far ahead, to be honest," Hermione lied. She had scheduled the interview in the late afternoon so she could Apparate to Paris and meet Bill and Fleur at a favorite bistro in Paris for dinner. They had sold Shell Cottage a decade ago and moved to France, where their three children attended Beauxbatons. As much as Hermione enjoyed their company, they would forgive her for rescheduling. However, Fleur, who was convinced Hermione had been single for far too long, might not forgive her for rebuffing Luc to meet up with them. With Rose off at Hogwarts, happily installed in Ravenclaw's tower under the diligent supervision of Percy’s daughters, who were both (of course) prefects, Hermione's weekend was entirely free.

"If you have enough material for your article, perhaps we could continue our conversation more informally? Off the record, as they say?" he winked.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, her flirtatious tone not even trying to hide her interest in him.

"While I'm not much of a chef, I could manage an omelette, and I have an excellent wine cellar. I thought perhaps we could have dinner and watch the sunset. I live near Le Toquet, overlooking the beach and I promise you, the view is _magnifique_ ," Luc said invitingly.

"That sounds lovely," Hermione agreed without hesitation.

Privately, she thought that the more magnificent view would probably be found in Luc's bedroom, but she had no objection to that or to the dinner plans he had just outlined for her. She made a mental note to send Harry a quick text thanking him for the unexpectedly pleasant consequences of his Malfoy obsession.


	4. Chapter 4

_**September 2017** _

Draco Malfoy, known for the past twelve years as Denis-Luc Madeline, rose stealthily from the bed and slipped on his discarded trousers, not wishing to wake the woman sleeping so soundly next to him. He prided himself on being a courteous lover, and Hermione certainly had earned herself a good night's sleep.

Soundlessly, he opened the drawer on his bedside table and rifled through it until he found his packet of cigarettes. A filthy habit, he knew, but one he indulged in only after sex. He liked to double down on his vices. However, he waited until he had made his way downstairs to the terrace to light up, knowing that Hermione would disapprove of smoking as a matter of principle. He could picture her nose crinkling adorably in protest to his cigarette.

The years had been kind to her, at least on the surface. She had been a scrawny child at Hogwarts, beneath his notice not merely because of her blood status, but because she lacked the bouncing curves that had drawn his adolescent eyes. Now, Granger had grown into her looks and developed a trim, petite body that he had thoroughly enjoyed fucking.

Draco cast a warming charm, wandlessly, and drew the soothing smoke into his lungs, staring out at the night-darkened English Channel. He exhaled and rolled his shoulders, smirking to himself as he felt the mild sting of the scratch marks the witch had left down his back. She had clawed him properly, just as a good lioness should, while he had taken her without restraint. Draco's smirk widened in pure masculine self-satisfaction at the recollection of just how responsive she had been, and how prettily she had begged for his cock.

Still, his mind was racing and not so blissfully blank as it should be after such a first-class shag. He had been shocked when Granger had shown up in his office that morning, but so far it had worked out very much to his advantage. Whatever her initial suspicions had been, he had allayed them - she never would have tumbled into bed with him otherwise. The question now for Draco was just how far he should press that advantage.

The prudent course of action would be to enjoy a few more romps between her thighs and then to end it once the weekend was over, with a parting bouquet of flowers and expressions of regret about their mutually demanding careers and the distance between Montreuil-sur-Mer and her home near London. But while Draco had always been a proponent of self-preservation, the ambitious part of his Slytherin personality was hissing that Granger might be his ticket back into wizarding Britain. Regardless of any physical resemblance, no one would associate the "Muggle" partner of a Mudblood war heroine with the last scion of the blood supremacist Malfoys.

Granger's phone, abandoned on the terrace table, chirped with an incoming text message. Curious as any cat, and just as amoral, Draco read the message displayed on the screen, the latest of several increasingly frantic missives from Harry Potter:

_Hey, Hermione. How did things go today? Sounds like it wasn't Malfoy after all?_

_Hi, Hermione. What time are you coming back tonight? You can tell me all about this other DLM - I'll be up._

_'Mione - are you okay? I'm getting worried._

_Please text me. ASAP._

Draco's fingers itched with the temptation of composing a response:

_Potter, Granger is fine. She's sleeping in my bed, understandably knackered given how I fucked her into the mattress. Sincerely, DLM_

He knew if he did so, Potter would burst into his villa with a squad of Aurors within minutes, just as soon as he could pinpoint the tracking charm that Draco had noticed on Granger's handbag. And while he would enjoy witnessing the world-class bollocking Hermione would bestow upon the Chosen One for interrupting her weekend tryst with a man she thought was a Muggle, Draco knew it was not worth the risk of exposure or the potential hassle of having to escape and fake his death once again.

He knew that Potter, once he confirmed his damnable intuition that Draco still was alive, would be relentless in his pursuit. Indeed, Potter had persisted in tracking him long after Draco had convinced the rest of wizarding Britain he was dead by the simple expedient of abandoning his childhood wand and using a replicating charm on a small amount of blood from a minor Splinching incident. He had managed to Apparate from Devon to Geneva on that long ago night when Rookwood had murdered his mother, but not without slicing a six-inch gash along his shin.

From his occasional perusal of the _Daily Prophet_ when he Polyjuiced himself for an excursion to magical Paris, Draco knew that as a man, the Boy Who Lived still was the same simplistic, self-righteous, moral absolutist he had been as an adolescent, but now with an Auror's power to abuse.

It would not matter to him that Draco had not cast the Fiendfyre that consumed the Burrow. The spell had been on his wand, just as the Dark Mark had been on his arm, and that would be enough for Auror Harry Potter to have him kissed. Draco thought sneeringly that Potter - for all he was proclaimed to be such a talented Seeker - flew a straight path through all that was most tortuous in the world.

So Draco set the cell phone down and continued to enjoy his cigarette, mulling over the odd twists and turns his own life had taken. He had been fortunate indeed that his paternal grandmother, Madeline Malfoy, had firmly believed in sticking away a bit of money for a rainy day. Since her husband Abraxas had been a right bastard who monitored her Gringotts account, she had stuck her money - denominated in francs, not Galleons - in a secret, numbered account with a Muggle Swiss bank, along with a spare wand glamoured to look like a lorgnette that now served as Draco’s primary wand. He had taken her name as his Muggle alias out of gratitude for her foresight.

When his grandmother had been on her deathbed, she had given that Swiss bank account number to her daughter-in-law. Narcissa in turn had shared it with Draco when he was sixteen, right after his father was arrested after the fiasco at the Ministry and right before Draco was to be branded with the Dark Mark. His mother had given him the option to run then, but Draco had not taken it until nearly a decade later, after she was dead and his choices had narrowed to living comfortably in the Muggle world or a Dementor's Kiss.

Draco had picked the former option and had never regretted it. He had been a pureblood prick in his youth, thinking Muggles were filthy, bestial subhumans. Now, he had evolved in his thinking, realizing that they were useful minions, much more clever than house elves and not nearly so annoying. Muggle labor had made his company a growing success, although a judicious dose of Elixir of Euphoria in the proprietary formula for the chocolate had not hurt. A clever Muggle plastic surgeon in the local hospital had removed every trace of the hated Dark Mark from his arm and fixed the curse scars Potter had left on his torso. Montreuil-sur-Mer had been good to him, and Draco had returned the favor by offering above-market wages to his employees and generous philanthropy to the town.

Still, his philanthropy was in the self-interested mode of Andrew Carnegie, the weaver's brat and bobbin boy who had become the richest man in the world. Every act Draco had ever performed since the day he was born was carried out because he wanted something. When he had seen the child trapped under a car along Las Ramblas, Draco's initial instinct had been to walk away, to avoid any use of magic that might expose him. He had reconsidered when he realized that his factory's pesky union representative would find it more difficult to drive a hard bargain against a boss who was a hero, or at least perceived as one.

Draco's thoughts drifted back to the woman in his bed as smoke from his exhalations drifted away on the light breeze off the Channel. His moment of pretending to be a Good Samaritan had brought Granger back into his life. Setting aside the way she had grown into her looks, she also had a much more attractive personality than he recalled from their Hogwarts days, suggesting that either she or he, or perhaps both of them, had mellowed with age.

Draco thought that he should get into the habit of thinking of her as Hermione. Granger was part of his past, while Hermione - he refused to think of her as Weasley - was his present and perhaps his future. He had nearly given himself away earlier in the night, muttering her maiden name against her thigh. He could only thank Salazar that "Granger" rhymed with "danger," and that his serpentine tongue had been so effective at temporarily dulling the formidable mental faculties of the brightest witch of their age. 

He smirked to himself. Hermione was just as brilliant as that werewolf Lupin had claimed, so many years ago. Again from his perusal of the _Prophet_ , Draco knew she was a rising star with an influential position in the MLE, one remarkable for a witch under forty. With her brains and credentials, she could easily be elected Minister of Magic if someone gave her a nudge in the right direction and shrewd political advice. Perhaps that advice could take the form of pillow talk, he thought. 

"Behind every great witch there's an even greater wizard," Draco paraphrased to himself, "even if he is pretending to be a Muggle." He shook his head and stubbed out his cigarette, no closer to a decision.

His mental machinations were interrupted by a great, silvery stag racing single-mindedly across the terrace. Draco sneered at Potter's Patronus, which he recognized from third year, when the bloody beast had knocked him over on the sidelines of the Quidditch pitch. He, Greg Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, and Marcus Flint had disguised themselves as Dementors, in a prank that had backfired spectacularly. Annoyed, he tossed his cigarette butt after the silvery stag and made to follow it inside and upstairs.

He paused outside his bedroom door to eavesdrop as Hermione dictated a return message to her own otter Patronus. She sounded more than a little put out.

" . . . just because you're still in the office on a Friday night doesn't mean I can't get out and have some fun, Harry James Potter," she concluded. "Don't interrupt me again. I have already had a _very_ enjoyable night and I am planning to continue for an even more pleasurable weekend. I will see you on Monday at the Ministry cafeteria and I will be expecting an apology."

Draco smirked at the thought of pathetic Potter, spending his weekend all alone, working. Apparently, the Auror's life was one of privations, isolation, self-denial, and chastity - never any amusement. Draco thought smugly that it was precisely what that spectacled bastard deserved.

After waiting a brief interval for Hermione to send her Patronus, Draco burst into the room, panting in feigned alarm. He had thought of a plan to turn Potter's annoying interruption to his own benefit.

"Hermione, are you alright? I thought I saw something just now, on the terrace! Did it come up here?" He widened his eyes, looking frightened as he gazed around the bedroom, hiding his appreciation at the sight of Hermione sitting up on his bed, sheets pulled up to her chest in an attempt at modesty.

"What do you think you saw, Luc?" she asked, carefully.

Muggles could not see either Dementors or the silvery Patronus animals that guarded against them, but magical children and Squibs could, because they had latent magic, even if it had not yet manifested. For Squibs, it never would, but on very rare occasions, a wizard or witch did not unlock their magical powers until adulthood. Draco saw no harm in laying the groundwork that Luc might be one of those rare individuals.

" _Quelle horreur_! It was terrible, large and glowing grey, with horns! It looked like the spectre of a misbegotten goat!" He hoped that Hermione took that description, _verbatim_ , back to Potter.

"Oh, Luc! That sounds awful! Were you frightened?" Hermione asked compassionately, leaving the bed and wrapping her arms around him, not bothering to bring the sheet with her.

Draco clung to her naked body, allowing himself to tremble just the slightest bit. He was impressed and more than a bit aroused by how good she was at dissembling, but he was better. “Only that it might harm you, _mon chaton_. I am glad to see you are fine."

"Yes, I can tell just how glad you are," Hermione said dryly, feeling his erection rise against her stomach.

"I've had a terrible shock," Draco said theatrically, rubbing his arousal against her smooth, warm skin. "I think I should return to bed."

"Yes, I think that's an excellent idea," Hermione agreed with a wicked smirk. "Now, you take off your pants and lie down," she directed, solicitously fluffing the pillows and giving him an eyeful of her pert, bare breasts.

Draco obeyed with alacrity, liking where this was going. He propped himself up on the pillows and opened his legs in invitation, confidently stroking his cock to stand at full attention as Hermione knelt between his legs. "Are you going to kiss it all better?" he asked hopefully.

She nodded, but kissed his mouth first, her hands cradling his head and her breasts flush against his chest. She rolled her hips once against his; he responded in kind, eliciting a small moan from her. Then, just as he wished, she began working her way downward, kissing, licking and nipping.

"Oh, yes," Draco groaned as she reached the trail of fine golden hairs that led down to his groin. He tangled his hands in her hair and pushed her head lower. "Right there, Hermione. _Suce-moi_."

Just as he asked, she took his length in her mouth and began to suck. As she drew him in deeper, heading towards the back of her throat, Draco shut his eyes and moaned happily. If this is how Hermione would make it up to him every time Potter acted like an arse, then he had much to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's thoughts on Harry persisting on a straight path through all that is most tortuous in the world, and his life of privations, etc. with no amusement paraphrase Victor Hugo's description of Inspector Javert.


End file.
